


Free Fall

by katalicz



Series: Prompt fills [2]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Bandit is a walking disaster, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Gone Wrong, Pre-Relationship, Scratch that there's official shippiness, bc i love them, lots of bandit/jager friendship, mentions of others but they dont appear, pining!bandit, promptfill, theres very very little actual shippiness in this its mostly just friendship tbh, this got way way longer than i expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-04-29 04:25:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14464974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katalicz/pseuds/katalicz
Summary: Bandit hates head wounds.They make him feel like he's on drugs, like he's not in control of his body, or his thoughts, or his words.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for pining!bandit and hurt/comfort! Hope i did it justice!  
> sorry for any errors - i still dont have a beta lmao - if theres anything that needs changing let me know!

Bandit hates the cold.

He's in Russia running a raid on a terrorist cell, following four days of investigation to make sure the police reports matched up to Six’s intel and that the occupants of the industrial complex they're currently attacking _aren’t_ innocents. Glaz had been quite happy lying in the back of a truck a mile out for two of said days, watching the comings and goings and confirming that yes, those are _definitely_ White Masks and yes, they _definitely_ need to be dealt with.

(Any last-minute concerns from Doc that the inhabitants weren’t _all_ terrorists were quickly dispelled by the gunfire that had started the second the team had set foot in the complex. Glaz had rolled his eyes from his perch and continued sniping without a word when Doc had given the all clear to use lethal force.)

Bandit has been sat in the uppermost floor in a nest of barbed wire, watching the courtyard below and the back of the buildings. He’s seen first-hand what damage an unnoticed repelling enemy can do (Ash still bears the scar from the bullet that had clipped her in the ass), and he’d rather not go through that again, thank you very much.

So he's sat next to the windowsill, batteries carefully deployed on the stairs and various corners in case anyone tries to flank (it has worked as well as always – he’d taken out three idiots tangled in his shock wire and had heard various crackles of electricity and cries of pain from the floor below before Twitch had silenced them with a neat shot from her F2), and he’s _bored_. He likes action, likes the blood rushing in his ears and the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but Blitz had pouted when he’d asked Bandit to sit still and watch the windows and Bandit is _weak_ when it comes to Blitz.

The action seems to have finally died down, he notices. His comm is set to silent, inactive unless someone specifically calls him – they can’t have the others getting distracted by the action (or lack thereof) at his end or vice versa, so he has no idea what’s really going on below. The silence has gone on for a few minutes, though, and he’s been sat in place for almost two hours – they should be finished soon, and he can get the hell out of here and back to base to do something a bit more _interesting_.

He flinches as his comm crackles to life and Blitz’s voice comes through.

“We’re clear at this end, Bandit - you can head to us when you’re ready,” he says, and Bandit sighs in relief.

“Copy that. I’ll collect my devices and meet you outside,” he replies, picking himself up from his nest of barbed wire and stretching. His legs are numb from where he's been sat, and the open window is sending a chill breeze flooding into his hidey-hole.

He pads silently down the hall, deactivating then picking up the pair of batteries left at the top of the stair well, stepping over a slightly scorched body on his way. He gave Blitz another two batteries to be left on the floor below, in the bedroom and the end stair well – he’ll stop to gather those next before hopping through the hatch from the bedroom down to the garage to escape. 

He clips the batteries together and tosses them over his shoulder before heading down the end staircase, SMG raised and ready, because it never hurts to be _careful_ \- some of the terrorists aren’t completely stupid, and know to play dead until given a chance to get the jump on them. He doubts it’s likely to happen; Twitch has proven to be _very_ thorough with her droning on every mission so far, and he trusts that Blitz at the very least would confirm all their kills with a neat bullet to the forehead.

The halls are dark and damp, smelling faintly of piss and alcohol and blood. Bandit has never been a fan of Russia, especially in the winter – it’s too cold a country for him, and that coupled with the grime covering every surface of the building means he can’t wait to be finished, so they can return to the local police station they are using as HQ for a shower or 3 to get rid of the gritty feeling that has settled across his skin.

He gathers up his third battery and moves to the central stair well. There’s a body slumped up against the wall, legs snared in the barbed wire covering the top stair and corridor, and Bandit is preparing to leap over it when a door slams somewhere behind him.

He dives for the wall on instinct, gun raised and ready to return any incoming fire, but there’s nothing there. The hairs at the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably, as though he’s being watched. The wind whistles through the gaps in the boarded-up windows, but not strongly enough to cause a door to make that much noise.

Two of his batteries have fallen down the stairs and they can stay there for now, because something is _wrong_.

Bandit narrows his eyes and turns his attention to the stairwell at the end of the hall. It’s empty, and the only fresh footprints on it are his own.

He turns back to look in the direction he came, planning on getting the hell out, and immediately regrets it.

Rapid footfall sounds behind him and he’s tackled to the ground before he can react, landing heavily on his side and smacking his head into the wall with a dull thud. Arms latch around his neck and _squeeze_ , a heavy weight settling across his back and there’s breathing in his ear and _shit_ he’s an _idiot_ , he’s going to _die_ -

“Bandit, what’s going on?” Blitz calls down the comm and Bandit gasps for air as the grip tightens, bringing a hand up to try and pry the arms loose. His assailant is smart enough to not be using his fingers to choke him out – Bandit could easily break them to get them off, but there’s little he can do when it’s the crook of an elbow wrapped tightly around his throat.

Adrenaline finally kicks in as the shock of the fall wears off; he swears angrily and brings his free elbow round to slam into the terrorist’s side - elbows are sharp and pointy and he knows that the cells never bother wearing proper armour. A well-placed elbow to the chest can knock someone out, but he’s at the wrong angle and he hasn’t got room to swing, so the hit is softer than he’d have liked. It does its job well enough, though, and the grip loosens momentarily. Bandit drags in a lungful of air before the panting in his ear turns ragged and the grip tightens again.

He spots something metallic coming toward him and _fuck, okay, that’s a knife_ \- he jerks his head back sharply and feels it slam into the terrorist’s face with a loud _crack_. The knife nicks his shoulder, but better that than his throat, and he smashes his head back again.

The grip slackens enough for him to grab his assailant’s arms and pull them loose. He gasps for breath, his pulse thundering in his ears. He’d wanted action but he hadn’t wanted _this_.

He grabs the blade of the knife, ever thankful for his thick gloves, ripping it out of his assailant’s hand before launching it down the hall. He has more freedom to move now, without the risk of being sliced open, and he takes advantage of it, writhing madly, elbows flying and making solid contact with the body above his until he manages to get the leverage to flip them over. He takes a blow to the ribs that’s mostly absorbed by his armour for his effort, but he has the advantage, now, even though he's still sprawled on his back. He’s lost his SMG but he can feel the weight of his pistol still sat in his thigh holster. He just needs the body below him to stop _fighting_ -

He slams his head back into the terrorist’s face once again and the struggling beneath him stops. Bandit has the advantage of a helmet; the terrorist does not, and the blow must have knocked him out. A shame - Bandit would like to have watched the man squirm before putting a bullet between his eyes.

He pulls slack arms from his neck and shoulders and rolls off the still body. He reaches for his pistol and neatly shoots the terrorist twice in the face, one above each eyehole. There’s a neat line down the centre of the mask from the headbutts, bloodied where the nose beneath it must have broken. He stomps on it for good measure, and there’s a satisfying _crack_ as the mask shatters to reveal a slither of pale skin.

Bandit collapses back against the wall, panting for breath and bringing a hand up to his shoulder. It’s bleeding - bastard managed to get him right where the armour plating finishes - but it could be worse. He can’t see his gun anywhere, which is more concerning, and as he looks down the hall to try and spot it, he notices that the stretch of wall next to the stairwell has a door in it, and he’s certain there wasn’t one there before.

Fuck.

He clicks his comm on with one shaky hand and raises his pistol with the other.

“This is Bandit,” he starts, voice calm despite his heart still pounding in his chest. Blitz immediately answers.

“We’re all outside, what’s holding you up?” he replies. He sounds worried.

“I got jumped., Bandits says, pulling himself to his feet and leaning against the wall. His head spins as he regains his balance. “There’s a hidden room up here that he must've come out of. I’ve lost my primary so need back up to check it out. Might be more hostiles.”

“Fuck, Glaz _said_ he thought there should be a few more - we're on our way, get yourself somewhere safe,” Blitz says, then switches to English to relay the message to the others.

Bandit is just about to click his comm off when he hears heavy footsteps coming from the new doorway. A light reflects off the wall opposite, and he hears the tell-tale hiss of a bomber the second before it steps out.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Bandit hisses, backing away from the door, head still spinning. His foot brushes a battery and he picks it up, launching it towards the bomber. It crashes into his leg and the bomber staggers, and Bandit takes that as his cue to flee.

“Bandit, what-?”

A plan begins to form in Bandit’s still fuzzy mind. He needs to get to the bedroom, to his exit. The battery he hasn’t picked up yet should still be live in there.

“Bomber, second floor!” he barks into the comm, ignoring Blitz’s cry of _shit, get out!_ “I’m going to the bedroom; the shock wire should break his suit and I will be able to take him down!”

“Be _careful_ , we’re on our way!” Blitz replies as Bandit throws himself into the bedroom, hurdling over the still-live shock wire in the doorway and dropping behind the deployable shield in front of the open hatch. He can't go down it for the risk of the bomber following, or catching the others off guard. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if they got injured because of him.

The wire arcs a comforting blue against the grey of the floor -  it should short circuit the wiring in the suit and make it useless, Bandit knows, and then it will be a simple gunfight. His pistol is still clutched in his hand, and he hastily reloads it. The footsteps in the hallway get closer.

The light appears in the doorway and the sound of heavy breathing fills the room. Bandit peeks around the shield just as the bomber steps into the first coil of wire.

He fires a couple of bullets in the direction of the bombers head, ducking back behind the shield as the bomber returns fire. The suit is still beeping, but he’s not quite in the live wire yet -

Bandit is about to peek again and resume firing when he hears the familiar crackle of electricity. The beeping stops.

There's a moment of relief before the bomber cries out and explodes.

The force of it slams the shield back into Bandits face, knocking him backwards with a startled gasp. There’s nothing but air beneath him and for a second he’s falling, falling-

He manages to turn onto his side, curling up as tightly as he can before he slams into the ground and the world turns black.

 

 -

 

Bandit wakes with a frantic gasp. He feels like he's been hit by a bus, lungs desperately trying to pull air into his body, pulse thudding in his head like a drum. He forces himself to stop trying to breath, to let his muscles remember how to work and stop _spasming_. Something near him clatters. He opens his eyes.

He's in the garage, dust still settling around him. His vision dances as he tries to focus and his ears are ringing, but he can wiggle his fingers and his toes so there’s probably nothing _majorly_ wrong with him. The clatter turns out to be a piece of what looks like the deployable shield, still rocking from its fall from the hatch above.

Black dots dance in front of his eyes and he groans as the shock wears off and the pain kicks in, shooting through his skull like fire. His shoulder burns and he forces himself to look at it. Blood is steadily oozing from the wound beneath the tear in his jacket. He reaches up to clamp a trembling hand across it.

He tries to move, but his muscles scream in protest and pain shoots through his skull again, threatening to make him black out and scream and puke all at once. He drops back against the floor and focuses on keeping his breathing steady and bringing his heart rate back down to normal.

The ringing in his ears slowly quietens and he becomes aware of voices coming from his comm. The sounds make his head hurt further, and he groans.

“Bandit, respond!” he hears Blitz cry out, the worry in his tone almost tangible even through the crackling comm. “This is Blitz – we heard an explosion, I need a sit-rep, now!”

“Kitchen is clear!” calls another voice – he thinks it was Fuze, but his brain is too muddled to tell. He tries and fails to clear his throat.

“Bandit, _respond_!” Blitz shouts again. He sounds _scared_ , Bandit realises.

“Garage,” he manages to say. His voice is hoarse, and it doesn’t sound like it should belong to him. “Bleeding. Could use a medic.”

“Shit, I’m on my way, hang on! Team, keep searching the building then set up a perimeter around the garage!” Blitz barks out. There’s the call of affirmative from the other lines, and Bandit winces. “Stay on the line, Ban, I’m coming!”

Bandit hums in response and reaches to the walkie talkie strapped to his chest to silence the other lines, leaving only Blitz’s open – their shouts of locations and statuses are making his headache worse, and Blitz is the only one he needs to talk to anyway. He drops his hand back down to his side, closes his eyes and numbly listens to Blitz call for Doc and the emergency team, explaining the situation. The world goes fuzzy around him and his pulse thumps in his ears, then Blitz is calling his name again.

“Still here,” he murmurs, and forces his eyes open. Footsteps sound in the stairwell Bandit knows is at the back of the garage, and Blitz’s shout of ‘ _friendly operator, don’t shoot_ ,’ comes from both Bandits’ comm and in an echo down the stairs.

“Unarmed,” Bandit rasps. There’s the sound of fast footfall then Blitz appears at his side, shield clattering as he drops it haphazardly.

“Looks like you’ve sprung a leak,” he says, the cheerfulness in his voice not doing anything to disguise the panic in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Bandit doesn’t try to move – his head throbs with the mere thought of it.

“You took your time,” he says weakly. Blitz frowns.

“It has been hardly a minute since we heard the explosion,” he says. Bandit blinks in surprise; it had felt like much longer than that to him.

Blitz gently runs a hand across Bandit’s helmet and lifts his head slightly. Bandit winces at the motion, and Blitz curses as he reaches around the back of Bandit’s head.

“You’ve cracked your helmet - that must’ve been one hell of an impact - I am _so glad_ we have to wear these things, you’d be smashed to smithereens without it,” he says quietly, more to himself than Bandit, then kneels closer and reaches forward to undo the chin strap. Bandit thinks that might be an understatement – his brain feels like pulp as it is, it would probably be little more than a smear on the floor if he were Twitch or Glaz.

“I’m going to take this off, okay? Take a deep breath, it will probably hurt.”

Bandit does as he's told and sucks in a breath as Blitz carefully pulls his helmet off, putting it somewhere off to the side. The pressure inside Bandit’s head eases when it’s gone, and hands come back to gently probe the back of his skull. The touch makes him feel sick, and Blitz murmurs out an apology, eyebrows knitted together as he peers into Bandit’s eyes. An ungloved hand reaches up to pull at his lower eye lid. The fingers are warm on Bandit’s cheek, and he finds himself missing the contact when it leaves. He's pathetic.

“You’re not focusing properly, are you?” he asks. Bandit groans in response. “Your pupils are way bigger than they should be. You’re definitely concussed, but I don’t know about anything else.” He chews on his lip as he looks down at Bandit. “Can I take your balaclava off? I need to check your head properly, and I don’t want to just pull it down in case it restricts your breathing.”

Bandit hums – he trusts Blitz to do it but it’s going to hurt like a _bitch_.

“Please?” Blitz says, and Bandit is _weak_ and he can’t refuse him.

“Be careful,” he says hoarsely, and Blitz nods.

“Of course. Deep breath,” he says, and Bandit closes his eyes as a hand comes to cup his head, the other finding the edge of the balaclava and slowly pulling it up. The pressure makes Bandit shudder, eyes snapping open on instinct, and Blitz hushes him gently as he swaps hands. There’s a quick tug then the pressure is blissfully gone and Bandit gasps with relief.

Blitz cups his head and gently probes with his fingers, face tight with concentration. He's leaning close enough that Bandit could count his eyelashes, if he could remember how to count.

“Okay?” Blitz asks, moving back and lowering Bandit’s head down to the floor. It’s cushioned by something, possibly Blitz’s gloves, and Bandit is dully surprised that Blitz is being so careful with him. He doesn’t know why – Blitz has more compassion than anyone he’s ever met. It’s both his greatest strength and biggest flaw, and Bandit doesn’t know whether to kiss him or punch him for it.

(He definitely knows which he’d prefer, though.)

“There’s no blood and I can’t feel anything obvious,” Blitz says before pulling his own balaclava down to reveal his mouth and smiling softly at Bandit. “Lots of bruising, I imagine, but not much worse, or you wouldn’t be conscious. How do you feel?”

“Shit,” Bandit huffs out, making Blitz chuckle.

“I know, I’m not surprised. Can you move all your limbs?”

Bandit knows he can, but does it again anyway for good measure. He hums in confirmation, and Blitz smiles again.

“That’s good. You’ll be okay, unless there’s something else going on.” Bandit rolls his eyes, ignoring the spike of pain it sends shooting through his head. “I won’t be able to give you any painkillers; Doc wants to check you over first. He’s on his way now; he won’t be too long.”

“Good,” Bandit hears himself say. The pulsing in his head has decreased, but now he can feel the gash in his shoulder throbbing like it’s been branded, and it occurs to him that maybe he should have mentioned that first.

“At least you’re talking to me,” Blitz says mildly, shuffling so that he's sat down by Bandit’s side. “I take it he blew you down the hatch, yes?”

Bandit hums. “Yeah. Shock wire didn’t stop the suit,”

Blitz winces. “That’s unfortunate. At least you weren’t any closer to him, the room up there’s a _mess_.”

Bandit can imagine. He's seen explosions before, knows how they can tear a body apart even at long range. The bomber must look like he's been put in a blender. No less than he deserves, but an unpleasant thought all the same.

“Can I look at your shoulder?” Blitz suddenly asks, leaning forwards and peering at Bandit’s hand covering the gash. “I can see blood; did you get shot?”

Bandit tries and fails to shake his head as Blitz gently tugs his hand away. “Knife,” he says, in lieu of a proper explanation.

Blitz hisses in sympathy as he gently reaches up to pull the fabric around the cut loose. “That’s not fun,” he says. “I’m going to cut your armour off, okay? It’s shattered, which probably isn’t helping your breathing, but at least it broke your fall a bit. Thank god we were wearing them, eh? Would’ve been your ribs otherwise, all smashed to bits,” he breaks off with a shake of his head. “I thought I was going to be too late to help you,” he swats lightly at Bandit’s good shoulder before pulling out his utility knife. “You scared me when you didn’t reply, you know.”

He says it calmly, jokingly, but Bandit can see the worry in his eyes and realises how genuine the comment is. Something in his chest flutters. He doesn’t have the energy to berate himself for it.

“Sorry,” he croaks out, and Blitz scoffs as he starts to cut away at the straps holding Bandit's police vest on, making short work of pulling it off before moving to the armour.

“It’s hardly your fault, don’t be silly,” he says, lifting the next panel away and dropping it aside with a clutter. Bandit finds that he _can_ breathe more easily, but the fogginess in his head doesn’t decrease any – if anything, it gets worse. He's aware of the aching in his ribs now, but like Blitz had said, at least the armour had absorbed most of the impact. Broken ribs are a pain in the ass – no running, no exercise, no dramatic sighing. They're near the top of the list of Bandit’s least favourite injuries, next to head wounds and leg wounds.

“Better?” Blitz asks. Bandit nods minutely, feeling a bit faint, but he can hold on. He’s been hurt worse before. “Good. I’m going to have to cut at your gear a bit, make sure there’s no fibres in the wound, okay?”

That sucks because he _likes_ this jacket, Bandit thinks, and he must have said it aloud because Blitz snorts.

“I’ll patch it up for you later if you let me have a look, okay?”

“Deal,” Bandit replies weakly, letting his eyes fall closed. A finger gently pokes him in the cheek, and he forces them back open to glare half-heartedly at Blitz.

“Keep them open, I don’t want you passing out again with this concussion. Doc would be furious with me, you know what he’s like,” he says apologetically. Bandit groans in response but does as he's told, watching as Blitz carefully slices a cross first into his jacket, then his thermals. The air is refreshingly cool on his skin – he hadn’t realised how hot he had gotten.

Black dots dance across his vision as he looks back up at Blitz. He's still wearing his helmet.

“You’re still wearing your helmet,” he says.

Blitz stops what he's doing for a moment and gives Bandit a puzzled look. “Yes, I am. It is cold, I don’t want to lose any heat in case we’re here for a while.”

“Not cold,” Bandit says. The words sound wrong in his ears, as though he's not the one saying them. He hopes the evac arrives soon. The frown on Blitz’s face deepens and he drops the knife to bring a hand up to rest on Bandit’s forehead.

“You’ve got a fever, you idiot - let me get this on your shoulder then I’ll find you a cloth or something.” He pulls a gauze pad out from seemingly nowhere, and a tiny bottle of antiseptic spray. Bandit frowns.

“I’ve found it never hurts to be prepared,” Blitz says in explanation - it’s not exactly standard procedure for them to carry anything more than a bandage, and Bandit doesn’t even carry that. "I’ve had wounds get infected from not being cleaned quickly enough, and trust me, it’s not pleasant.”

He gently sprays the cut and Bandit hisses slightly at the sting. Blitz gently probes it with his fingers before nodding, pleased. “It’s not bleeding too much and it’s not _too_ deep, so that’s good. It’ll hurt when I put the gauze on though, so be prepared for that,” he says apologetically.

Bandit wrinkles his nose but doesn’t complain until Blitz pushes down on the gash, the pressure making him feel faint. He hears himself whimper.

“It’s okay, just breathe,” he thinks he hears Blitz say, but he's not sure because his head is spinning and his ears are ringing and the world is fading to black once more.

 

-

 

Bandit wakes up again and this time he feels as though he’s underwater.

Everything still hurts, but now it’s a distant pain, as though his body isn’t really his own. His pulse is still uncomfortably loud in his ears. He swallows dryly, then opens his eyes to see Blitz’s blurry face hovering over his.

“Oh, thank god,” Blitz breathes out, and moves back. There’s a hand on Bandit’s forehead, and his head is more pillowed than before – probably with Blitz’s balaclava. The other man has taken off his head gear and Bandit can see his messy hair, the way his mouth is pinched thin with worry.

“Evac will be here in 5 minutes,” Blitz says. “You weren’t out for long, not quite a minute. I’ve got the gauze taped on fine. How do you feel?”

“Weird,” Bandit croaks out. “Like ‘m on drugs.”

Blitz smiles slightly. It’s a nice smile, and it makes Bandit’s heart flip-flop in his chest. He's pathetic. “You’re not on drugs, don’t worry.”

Bandit sighs with relief – he has no good memories of drugs. He has very few memories of drugs, in fact, all of them washed away by the copious amounts of alcohol he'd drunk after coming down from the high. He'd hated it, and hated what he’d been forced to become, but it had kept him alive and unsuspected and that’s all that had mattered.

Blitz is talking again, and Bandit finds himself watching the way his lips form the words. It’s almost hypnotising. Blitz has a very nice mouth. “I was wondering if you’d wake up before we got back to base - Doc will be pleased to see that you have. And it means I’m not sat waiting on my own, too,”

Bandit raises an unsteady hand and pats the one on his forehead. It’s wet and it feels like a cloth.

“That’s because it is a cloth. You still have a temperature,” Blitz says mildly. _Oh_. Bandit reaches back and pats what is probably Blitz’s arm.

“I’m awake,” he hears himself say, and Blitz chuckles.

“You are. But not lucid, huh?” he says, and they fall into silence as Bandit tries and fails to gather his thoughts. They dance through his grasp like smoke – he hates head wounds and how _dull_ they make him feel. Like he’s not in control, like he's a passenger in his own mind. _Like drugs_ , his brain helpfully supplies again.

“Are the others okay?” Bandit eventually asks, because he’d been so lost in his own pool of misery and suffering that he’d completely forgotten about the firefight the other four had been in not quite ten minutes ago.

“They’re all good. Rook caught a bullet in his vest but it was low-calibre so he's completely fine. Pleased, in fact; he says it proves the armour is doing its job.”

“Good,” Bandit murmurs. His head throbs and he blinks away the black dots slowly gathering in the corners of his vision. He can’t hold on much longer, he thinks, but at least Blitz is here. Blitz will watch over him.

 “I thought you wouldn’t want everyone hovering over you, so I’ve set Rook to watch the stairs and Fuze to watch the hatches, even though we’re certain we got everyone. Twitch is going through that room to see if she can dig up any more intel, she’s furious at herself for not noticing it was there,” Blitz continues, tilting his head to the side. “Glaz is still covering the front of the building, Doc is on his way with the medics, and I am here with you.”

“I’m glad,” Bandit hears himself say. Blitz looks confused.

“Sorry?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Bandit clarifies, voice slurring. He’s not quite sure what language he’s speaking, but he only knows two and Blitz speaks both of them, so it doesn’t really matter. “Wouldn’t want anyone else,”

“You softy,” Blitz huffs quietly. Bandit numbly pats him on the probably-an-arm again, and a hand takes his to guide it back down to rest on his chest. He sighs. The pounding in his head continues. He’d kill to be able to go to sleep for maybe a week or so, but Blitz has told him not to, so he won’t.

“They won’t be long now. Only a few minutes. Can I check your temperature?” Blitz asks gently.

“Sure.”

The cool, damp cloth is removed from his head and replaced by a broad, warm hand. Blitz has very nice hands.

“Thank you,” Blitz says. Bandit winces – he must’ve spoken aloud again. “Yeah, you did. It’s fine, don’t worry. And you’re still the same temperature, so that’s good. Doc said to only worry if you suddenly get hotter.”

Bandit closes his eyes briefly. “I’m always hot. Fuck you,” he hears himself say and instantly regrets it, because what the _fuck_. He _hates_ head wounds.

Blitz snorts softly. “Yeah, I know. Didn’t mean to insult you.”

The hand finally pulls back from Bandit’s head, which is a shame. He was enjoying the warmth.

It moves back.

Bandit really, _really_ hates head wounds.

“It’s fine, don’t worry. You’re okay,” Blitz says gently. Bandit doesn’t quite know what to make of the soft look on his face, but his heart is flip-flopping again and he _still_ doesn’t have the energy to stop it.

“Thanks,” he manages to say, because if it were anyone but Blitz, they’d be gathering blackmail material or running for the hills. Blitz wouldn’t do either of those. Blitz is his favourite.

Blitz hushes him. “How are you feeling?”

Bandits head throbs as though confirming that yes, it’s still there making his life a misery. His vision swims with pain once more, and he dully prays to any god that will listen to not let him faint again. “Like crap. Head hurts.”

“I know. It won’t be long, I promise. You’ll be okay.”

“Yeah. Glad you’re here,” Bandit says weakly. Blitz huffs, and the thumb on Bandits’ forehead gently strokes across his skin. It’s nice. Reassuring.

“Yeah?” Blitz asks quietly. Bandit thinks he's still wearing the same odd expression, but he can’t quite see clearly enough to know for sure.

“Yeah. You’re the best.” It’s becoming a struggle to keep his eyes open – he focuses on the warm hand on his head and the soothing presence besides him and hopes that Doc will arrive soon. He wants to sleep.

The stroking stops momentarily.

“And here I thought you didn’t like me,” Blitz murmurs. Bandit can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a joke or not, but if it is, it’s a _really_ shit one, because of _course_ he likes Blitz. Blitz is the nicest, kindest, friendliest person he’s ever met. Blitz is the best and Bandit _really_ wants to kiss him.

“Thanks,” Blitz says softly. “I really like you too, you know,”

Something warm flourishes in Bandit’s chest as he registers Blitz’s words. “Good,” he thinks he whispers, cut off by a wince as the pounding in his head returns at full force.

Blitz hushes him gently, thumb still stroking soothingly. “It’s okay, they’re coming. I can hear them now. Just hold on a bit longer.”

His other hand comes up to hold the one on Bandit’s chest, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Bandit tries and fails to squeeze back. His eyes slip close of their own accord, and he forces them open when Blitz calls his name. He looks worried again.

Shadows appear in the garage doorway, and Bandit finally hears the approaching footsteps.

“Stay with me?” he slurs out, the words heavy on his tongue. He's going to faint.

“Of course. Just stay awake, Doc’s here now,” comes the quiet reply, then Doc’s calm face appears over Bandit’s own. His mouth is moving faster than Bandit can keep up with, and he can’t quite hear what the Frenchman is saying, but it doesn’t matter. Blitz will tell Doc what happened. He trusts Blitz.

He distantly feels himself being lifted onto a stretcher, hand still held in Blitz’s and cool air replacing the warmth on his head. He feels Doc pull at his eyelids and poke and prod at him until he's apparently satisfied, then there’s the sharp pinch of a needle in his neck and the world is falling blissfully quiet.

He manages to smile weakly at Blitz, who’s still faithfully by his side, before his vision fades to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bandit wakes up with Jäger by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly fluff and Bandit/Jäger friendship, enjoy!!

Bandit wakes up groggily and feeling less like he's been hit by a bus and more like he's gone a few rounds in the ring against Sledge.

His head is clearer, this time, thank god. He'd sell his soul to never have a concussion again, but there's little chance of that happening and very high chances that he's going to get another one someday. The nature of the job, and all.

(He wouldn't quit it for the world, even if it meant he'd never get injured again.)

He cracks open an eye and is met with the familiar sight of the medical ward of Hereford base. Part of him had been expecting to wake up in some hospital in Russia, but he supposes it makes sense to fly him home whilst he's unconscious (and therefore unaffected by his usual motion sickness) instead of waiting about. It makes Doc’s life easier, and since Doc has saved them all more times than Bandit can count, he thinks that's perfectly fair.

There's a slight tapping coming from somewhere in the room, and Bandit opens his eye a bit more to see Jäger sat by his bedside, phone in hand and leg jiggling away as usual. Bandit closes his eye, because if Jäger notices him awake, he'll force him to stay that way, and Bandit distantly remembers Blitz promising to let him sleep for a week.

 “Oh good, you're still alive. Doc said you were fine but you were supposed to be awake about five hours ago, so I was a little concerned,” comes Jäger’s cheerful voice, and Bandit manages not to sigh with disappointment. Of course Jäger would choose now to be perceptive.

“Let me sleep,” he groans, because his mind is still foggy enough for it to come to him easily.

Jäger huffs, and Bandit can imagine him rolling his eyes. “Hello to you too. You’re not allowed to sleep anymore, asshole, wake up.”

Bandit opens his eyes properly, and is relieved to find his vision has returned to normal. He raises a slightly shaky hand to flip Jäger off. Jäger grins at him and sticks out his tongue in retaliation before putting his phone down and leaning back to pick up a plastic cup of water from the bedside table. 

“If you sit up and promise not to die on me, I’ll give you this. I haven’t got a straw, though, so if you drown I’ll take fifty percent of the blame," he says, waving the cup around. The water inside it splashes slightly over the rim and onto the floor, and Bandit realises how thirsty he is.

“Fuck you,” Bandit says hoarsely, but does as he’s told and manages to sit upright, muscles complaining but thankfully not arguing. Jäger carefully rearranges the pillows behind his head before passing him the cup and raising an eyebrow.

“Take it slow, you’ve been out for two days,” he says, and Bandit chooses to ignore him in favour of downing the water in one. It’s cool and makes him feel a little more like a human being instead of a pile of dirty socks, which is a relief. His skin feels a bit less gross than it did on the mission (someone must have given him a sponge bath -he's grateful he wasn't awake for it), but he'd kill for a shower, and then a shave, and then a twelve hour long nap.

Jäger rolls his eyes as Bandit holds the cup out in silent demand of a refill, and grabs the jug of water from the bedside cabinet.

"You'll make yourself sick, dipshit," he says, but fills it anyway, and Bandit flips him off as he downs the water again. By the third cup he's feeling more normal, and after the fourth he drops his head back on the pillows.

“How’re you feeling?” Jäger asks, taking back the cup and tossing it neatly into the bin.

Bandit thinks for a second. His body aches, which isn’t a surprise, but the brain-melting headache has definitely gone. He’s a bit miffed to see that Blitz has vanished, too, because he distinctly remembers Blitz promising to stay. That’s what he gets for getting his hopes up, he supposes, but it still aches a little to know that Blitz has ditched him. It’s fine, though. He can live with it.

IQ isn’t here either, which is a bit odd. He’d like to think they’re friends enough that she’d come and check on him.

At least he’s got Jäger.

Jäger probably isn’t asking about that, though, so he replies, “Could be worse. What day is it?”

“Tuesday,” Jäger says. “You got back to base early this morning. Doc gave you an MRI over in Russia to make sure you hadn’t done anything _too_ stupid to your brain, gave you a day to make sure the pressure changes wouldn’t rupture your skull or anything weird, then brought you home. You’ve been sleeping off that concussion ever since - they thought you’d prefer to wake up here rather than over there.” He tilts his head to the side. “Watch your shoulder, by the way, it’s got stitches in it.”

Bandit hums in acknowledgement. He’d almost forgotten about that thanks to the whole concussion thing, but it twinges as though to remind him. The painkillers must be wearing off. “Where is he?” he asks, because it's unusual for Doc not to be immediately hovering by his side, taking his temperature and doing whatever else he does.

“Gone to France, they left about five hours ago. They’ve got a hostage situation or something,” Jäger says, and Bandit winces in sympathy. Back-to-back missions are never great, especially when one of them has innocents at stake. 

“He took Blitz and IQ with him, since Monty’s out of action. They say hello and that they’re sorry they're not here, and that you’re an idiot for assuming they’d abandon you.” Jäger finishes with a grin, and, _oh._ That makes more sense _._ Bandit isn’t sure whether to be pleased that they know him well enough to correctly guessed his pessimistic thoughts or not.

Something in his gut settles down at the thought that they haven’t just left him with Jäger for the fun of it, and something else is quite pleased that Jäger cares enough to sit with him for so long. 

Jäger rolls his eyes and his grin turns mischievous. “Apparently you’re a mess on morphine, kept waxing poetical about Blitz’s eyes. And his hands.” He winks knowingly. Bandit grimaces - he hates drugs. At least he doesn't remember it. “I’m a bit sad I wasn’t there to see it, to be honest. You’re a fucking idiot, you’re honestly killing me. Tell him.”

“Fuck you,” Bandit says with a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. Thank fuck Jäger _wasn’t_ there or he’d have recorded the whole ordeal, and Bandit would be forced to murder him.

Jäger’s catlike grin softens to a smug smile. He doesn’t press the matter any further, which is odd – usually he takes any opportunity to tease Bandit by the horns and refuse to let go, and if it has anything to do with the way Bandit is quietly pining over Blitz like a pathetic schoolgirl, all the better.

 “So,” Jäger starts, tearing Bandit from his thoughts. “Doc said you’re allowed to get up as long as you take it steady. He’s booked you an appointment with the nurse for tomorrow if he's not back by then, so she can prod you about and make sure you’re all normal.”

Bandit scrunches his nose up. The nurse that Doc has been assigned is British and very no-nonsense, and Bandit isn’t really sure what to think of her. She’s useful, he’ll admit that, but he gets the feeling she’s not fond of him, and would gladly take any excuse to stab him with a needle. Possibly because he accidentally put a fake spider in her coffee (it was meant for Rook, and Rook had cackled when he found out what had happened), but it could be anything.

The thought of getting out of bed is nice, though. He’ll stiffen up if he stays still for much longer, and he’s too awake now to go back to sleep.

“That’s fine,” he says. Jäger leaps up and offers out a hand, as eager as ever. “Need to shower.”

"Nope, sorry, you're not allowed one today because of the stitches. You can have one tomorrow," Jäger says apologetically. 

Bandit sighs. "Fine. Workshop, then?"

“Blitz gave me strict instructions to feed us before we do anything, you know what he's like,” Jäger snorts, rolling his eyes fondly. “But then we can. I’ll show you what I’ve been doing with the car, I’ve found some really nice cylinders for the engine-“

Bandit tunes him out as he waffles on, taking the hand offered and heaving himself up with it. His head spins as he gains his balance, but Jäger steps closer and links their arms, offering subtle support, and Bandit is grateful for his occasional ability to read the situation. His legs aren’t completely stable underneath him, and it feels a bit as though a stiff breeze will send him toppling to the floor. A glance down tells him he's wearing a pair of baggy sweatpants that look like they should belong to Montagne, and a long-sleeved nightshirt that he's _sure_ belongs to Blitz, and he supposes that they'll have to do, because he really doesn't have the energy to change, and he's definitely not letting Jäger help him. He's seen people wear far worse things around the base, from Thermite's frilly pink apron to Blackbeard's stripey boxer shorts and matching sunglasses.

They slowly wander down to the kitchen, Bandit grimacing as his joints protest, Jäger still babbling on about his engine. The kitchen is empty when they arrive, which isn’t particularly unusual – a glance at the clock tells Bandit it’s just past 2 PM, and almost everyone will be out training. He's grateful for that - he's not proud enough to refuse the help from his teammates, but he'd rather not have the other operators look at him pityingly. 

Jäger guides him into a chair and wanders over to the cupboards.

“Want anything?” he asks, pulling out a loaf of Tachanka’s bread and box of cookies.

“Water, please,” Bandit replies, watching as Jäger heads to the sink to fill a glass before sending it sliding neatly across the table to come to rest in front of him.

“Food?”

“I’m alright,” Bandit says, and Jäger shakes his head.

“You’ve been unconscious for two days, idiot, eat something. Juice, pastry? I know Monty’s been teaching Rook how to make them, so we've got  _millions_.”

“I’m fine-“

“I'm sorry, you don't get a choice. Juice and pastries it is,” Jäger says with a sunny smile. Bandit rolls his eyes.

A carton of juice labelled ‘IQ’ slides to a halt in front of him, quickly accompanied by a box of round Danish pastries. Jäger kicks out the chair opposite and sits down, a pile of sliced bread in front of him which he proceeds to slather in jam.

“You’ll get fat if you’re not careful,” Bandit says, and receives a swift kick to the shin.

“So will you, if you insist on lying in bed for two days. We’d have to roll you around like a ball, it would be awful,” Jäger says, waving his hand dramatically before shoving almost an entire slice of bread in his mouth.

“I had a _concussion_ ,” Bandit huffs, watching in mild disgust as Jäger chews. Jäger shrugs and swallows loudly.

“Careless, letting a bomber sneak up on you like that,” he says.

Bandit flips him off. “I hope you choke.”

“Be quiet and drink your juice,” Jäger replies, then smirks. “IQ said we’re welcome to it, since she’s gone away, and I’m sure Blitz will be _very_ upset if he comes home to find you’ve developed scurvy. He’d be so sad, and it’d be all your fault.”

Bandit opens the carton and downs it in one, glaring pointedly at Jäger all the while. “You’re a bitch,” he tells him sincerely, because it’s true. He regrets spending time around Jäger, because Jäger is far more perceptive (and _cunning_ , the sly little bastard) than he lets on, and isn't afraid to guilt trip Bandit, or blackmail him (Bandit would be proud, were he not on the receiving end. He didn't think Jäger had it in him.).

It's his own fault for being so obvious with his pining, he supposes, but at least Jäger has the common sense to keep his mouth closed when Blitz is around.

“I can’t believe we ever thought you were scary,” Jäger continues with a grin. “Look how easy it is to persuade you to do things. You even have _emotions_ , I’m so _proud_ of you.” He fakes wiping a tear from his eyes, and Bandit raises his eyebrows in mild annoyance. Jäger is right; he _is_ growing soft, but Bandit has a _reputation_ to uphold, god damn it. He'd appreciate it if Jäger did't shout that to the whole base. 

“I’m going to glue you to your underwear,” he huffs. Jäger laughs and finishes off his bread.

“Love you too,” he says cheerfully, standing up and shoving his plate haphazardly on the counter. “Finished?”

Bandit realises he hasn’t actually eaten yet, but that’s fine. He takes a pair of neatly made custard pastries from the box before shoving it in Jäger’s direction and tossing the empty juice carton neatly into the bin. It skims past Jäger's ear and makes him jump with surprise, Bandit is pleased to see. Minor revenge.

“Sure, let’s go," he says, and accepts the hand Jäger offers and lets Jäger heave him up again, legs still unstable but less so than before. It might take a gale to knock him over, now, but the weather is surprisingly nice for April, and the only thing that gives him trouble on their walk to the garage is the way Jäger stops without warning to coo at Mute's rabbits.

He settles in to watch Jäger continue whatever he’s doing to the engine (it’s always amusing to watch Jäger work because he has no real training with cars, having been entirely taught by his uncle, and whilst his results are always excellent, his methods are always questionable and he usually ends up covered in oil, much to Bandit’s joy and IQ’s disgust), and steals the car radio to fiddle with. He can probably make it work again, but it’d be far more entertaining to turn it into something he can bother IQ with. She enjoys trying to reverse engineer his creations, even if she never gets very far.

He spends an hour trying to figure out what he could make, chewing on his pastries as he does so (which are _excellent_ , Montagne is a _miracle_ ). Jäger clatteres around in the background, talking Bandit through what he’d doing – Bandit isn’t really listening, but it helps Jäger focus and Bandit isn’t cruel enough to tell him to stop.

He’s just decided to try to make the radio play a mash of all the stations at once (Jäger will be annoyed when he realises; he likes listening to the history segments) when Jäger’s phone chimes.

Jäger appears from the depths of the car’s innards, face streaked with oil and hands somehow not. Bandit doesn’t pay him much attention until he cackles and comes over to stand by Bandit’s side.

“Look at this,” he says mirthfully, shoving the phone into Bandit’s hands and stepping close to watch over Bandit’s shoulder. Bandit has an inkling that this isn’t going to be anything good.

He frowns and peers at the phone. A message from IQ fills half the screen, so he taps it to enlarge it and ignores Jäger’s barely muffled laughter .

It’s a photo of Blitz huddled over his own phone, eyebrows pressed together in thought and the faintest blush spread across his cheeks. Bandit ignores the way his heart leaps in his chest and scrolls down to read IQ’s caption, which says ‘ _he’s been like this all morning ffs please send help’_

There’s another message just below that which reads, ‘ _okay so i_ _might have helped him along, brace for impact ;)’._

Jäger has replied with a series of exclamation marks and a single eggplant emoji.

Bandit blinks in confusion because he has _no_ idea what that means. A glance at Jäger doesn’t reveal anything; Jäger just waggles his eyebrows and says, “Now look at what Blitz sent me!”

Bandit frowns at him but does so, and lets Jäger reach over his shoulder to scroll up slightly.

_'Hey Jäger, Bandit’s phone broke when he fell rip can you please show him this?'_

Bandit hadn’t even noticed he doesn’t have his phone with him. He’ll have to ask Twitch to set him up with a new one – he doesn’t trust either Jäger or IQ enough to let them. 

“Now scroll down!” Jäger instructs.

Bandit does so.

_'Hey Ban, sorry for leaving you alone with Jäger! We’ve just finished up here so we’ll be home soon, hope you’re feeling okay! :)'_

Bandit manages to keep the small smile from spreading across his face. He adores Blitz. He might as well embrace the fact. He's well and truly screwed.

“Keep scrolling!” Jäger says, almost vibrating with excitement where he's pressed against Bandit's back, and Bandit swats him lightly in the chest to get him to back off a bit. Jäger pats his shoulder apologetically and does so before motioning towards the message again.

_'Also, I think we should talk about some things when I get back, apparently we’re both idiots <3'_

Oh _._

Bandit blinks in shock and feels heat spread across his cheeks. Something that feels oddly like _hope_ swells in his stomach because _that's_ new, and by the way Jäger is slapping him on the back celebratorily, it's means exactly what Bandit thinks it does.

He blinks up at Jäger, who’s grinning from ear to ear and looking very pleased with himself. He must have done something, the sneaky asshole. Bandit is willing to bet IQ's involved, too.

(If Blitz means what Bandit thinks he means, and he hopes with all his heart that he does, he'll buy them a cake.)

“I _told_ you you’re an idiot!” Jäger says, before taking back his phone and ruffling Bandit’s hair in a way that would normally have earned him a punch.

Bandit doesn’t have the heart to do it, though, because said heart is currently doing somersaults in his chest in a very good impression of an Olympic gymnast.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he says, face still uncharacteristically red. He thinks he might have a heart attack.

Jäger just laughs harder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou for all the lovely comments and messages, they mean the world to me <3  
> I can do a final chapter if anyone's interested, but think it ends quite nicely there if not.
> 
> find me over at http://cronulicious.tumblr.com/ for general stuff or https://katalicz.tumblr.com/ for strictly siege stuff!  
> Still taking prompts, just drop me a message!  
> I'm working on a couple at the moment but got so carried away with this that they'll be out later than I expected.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Blitz arrives back on base, Bandit panics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the long awaited finale is here! Sorry it took so long, life caught up to me for a bit and then I got ridiculously carried away with actually writing it lmao. There's a few small changes made to previous chapters but nothing plot changing.  
> Anyway - there's a lot of rambling and repetition in this, because Bandit IS still suffering mild concussion (and also a bit of a mental breakdown, which snuck itself in without me realising until it was written) but if there's anything that doesn't read right, just let me know and I'll fix it.  
> Finally, HUGE thanks to everyone who's left kudos, comments or bookmarks!! You're the best!!!

When Blitz arrives back at the base, Bandit panics.

He can’t help it – it’s been over six hours since he read Blitz’s text, which is _more_ than enough time for his mind to come up with a number of bad, terrible, no good situations. He wants this, wants it more than he’s wanted anything in a long time, but he can’t shake the worry that this is a mistake, that Blitz will regret it, that Bandit has _forced_ him by saying something whilst he was unconscious.

It peaks when Jäger starts counting down the minutes, a gleeful grin on his face that’s almost always followed by some sort of trouble. Bandit has seen that expression before, both on himself when he’s done something particularly mean and on the faces of the men in Hanover when a plan goes perfectly, and it awakens something in his mind, something old and paranoid and left over from his time undercover, where letting anyone close would mean torture and pain and death.

It whispers that the whole thing is a trick meant to break him, to ruin his carefully built trust in the team, to get _rid_ of him. It’s not entirely irrational a thought – his old base had done similar when he first returned in an attempt to learn what had happened, what he’d done, before getting him kicked out and cast aside, only kept with the force because he was too valuable (too good at _killing_ ) to let go.

So when he hears the familiar whir of helicopter rotors in the distance, Bandit finds he can’t move.

Jäger hears the rotors a second later – he straightens up from where he’s been digging around in the engine and smiles.

“Let’s go, then,” he says, something unreadable glinting in his eyes that makes Bandit’s heart hammer in his chest, his lungs forget how to work.

_This could be a trap, it could be a lie to make him drop his guard, to expose him, to let them_ hurt _him-_

“Ban?” Jäger says, but Bandit barely hears him for the rush of blood in his ears and the nausea that’s creeping steadily up his throat. He thinks he's going to puke, to pass out – his chest is familiarly tight and he can’t _breathe_ -

A warm hand presses itself to the side of his neck, cupping his skull, and Jäger’s face appears in front of Bandit’s own.

“Breathe, dipshit, you’re fine,” he says, before promptly pulling Bandit’s face forwards to rest on his shoulder. He stinks of oil and sweat and it’s _awful_ , but the smell is grounding, familiar. It breaks the chain of thought, disrupts the panic and the fear and drags him back to the present, to force himself to drag a breath in, then out, copying Jäger’s own exaggerated movements.

“You know I wouldn’t set you up if I thought it’d end badly, right?” Jäger continues, voice unusually soft. His thumb slides down under Bandit’s ear, over his pulse point, making him feel horribly vulnerable, but he can’t move away because it’s _Jäger_.

Jäger, who he hated when they first met, who dove on him to save him from a C4 that should have ripped him in half but instead filled them both with shrapnel and forced them to trust each other for the fear of the death that would have come if they did not. Jäger, who’s trust was the hardest to earn, who’s one of his closest ( _only_ ) friends, who Bandit wouldn’t hesitate to fight for, to kill for.

(Not die for – he’s no good dead, after all; he can’t protect them if he’s dead)

They’ve fought and squabbled and torn each other apart more times than Bandit cares to count, both verbally and physically because they're _both_ stubborn, abrasive assholes who have no social skills worth speaking of - but Bandit trusts him with his life all the same. He gets his revenge for Bandit’s tricks in his own weird way, like filling his drawers with glitter and encasing his phone in jelly and painting his battery boxes magenta; who Bandit knows ( _hopes_ ) wouldn’t hurt him deliberately (though accidentally is another matter), not when he knows how much this _means_ to him.

So he tries to nod and ends up shrugging weakly, chest still heaving and pulse still racing beneath Jäger’s thumb. Jäger snorts.

“Well, I mean, I’d _absolutely_ set you up for like, a surprise party or something, but you know we wouldn’t joke about this, right? And besides, it’s _Blitz_ – he cries at _Star Wars_ , for god’s sake – he wouldn’t do that to anyone. He’s been talking about wooing you for _ages_ , it’s been _awful_ listening to him and not being able to say anything.”

And Bandit knows rationally that Jäger’s right – Blitz wouldn’t hurt a fly (but he would hurt a bully or a terrorist or anyone out to cause harm. Bandit isn’t quite sure what Blitz might see in him, considering he’s _technically_ been all three at various points in his life). He knows that Blitz isn’t that cruel, that Jäger isn’t either, that IQ would put her foot down _immediately_ if she thought anything was wrong. Fear is irrational, though, and this is something he didn’t know he still had. He had thought that he’d locked everything to do with Hanover away years ago – clearly, he was wrong.

(That Blitz has apparently been pining too sends a comforting wave of warmth through Bandit’s chest, makes him feel lighter than he has in years despite the anxieties still crawling through his mind. It soothes the last urges _to run, to leave, to isolate himself,_ and the hope that had been squashed down grows again. If Jäger is right, then Blitz wants this just as much as he does.)

Jäger stands there for a minute more, until Bandit uncurls his fingers from where they're clenched around the arms of his plastic chair, until his pulse isn’t racing beneath Jäger’s warm thumb. He slowly sits up, away from Jäger and wiping at his face to get rid of any oil (he’ll never know how Jäger gets so _covered_ in the stuff), before sighing warily. The sound of the rotors is dying down – they must have landed, by now – and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be any more ready.

“I suppose this is it, then,” he says hoarsely, and half-heartedly slaps Jäger’s hand away before it can ruffle his hair.

“Don’t sound too miserable about it,” Jäger replies, rolling his eyes but smiling warmly. “I promise you, it’ll be fine. Ready to go?”

Bandit takes the hand offered out and heaves himself up, legs stiff and aching from being sat down for so long, and lets Jäger tuck an arm around his waist. He’s not quite stable, still wobbly from his fall and the panic and the anticipation of _actually confronting_ _Blitz_ , but it’s better than before – at least Jäger won’t have to carry him.

He nods and wraps his arm around Jäger’s shoulders securely, letting Jäger take most of his weight. Jäger can manage it and he’s exhausted – a voice in his head that sounds uncannily like Doc says _you should’ve stayed in bed, idiot_ -, and after all he’s been through these past few days he thinks he’s entitled to being carried around a bit.

(And it’s a bit of revenge against Jäger for all his smug grins, too. Bandit will take any victory he can get.)

Jäger doesn’t complain, for once, and just tightens his grip before steering them out of their workshop and towards the yellow light spilling from the open kitchen door.

 

.

 

The kitchen is quieter than Bandit had been expecting, considering almost everyone is on base. The tables are pushed together, though, and Thermite is stood babysitting what smells like a pot of Kapkan’s stew by the stove – presumably it’s been decided that they’re having a group meal, as occasionally happens after a series of longer missions and Six decides that they need to ‘ _retain their humanity’._

(Every time they’ve had a group dinner, chaos has followed – usually brought on by the ridiculous amount of alcohol consumed and the competitiveness born from having so many personalities on base. Somehow Six hasn’t caught on that it’s the _worst idea ever_ , and Bandit isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that he’s got an excuse to miss it.)

Jäger guides them inside, stepping around the various bags left on the floor and calling out a hello to Thermite, who turns and grins cheerfully.

“Good to see you out of bed, pal – if you’re looking for Blitz, he’s that-a-way,” he says with a _far_ too knowing wink, flicking his spatula in the direction of the armoury, and Bandit suddenly develops the urge to throttle Jäger where he’s stood.

“Brilliant, that’s just what we wanted!” Jäger replies, before Bandit can make a snarky retort. “And I don’t think any of us will be about for food, other than maybe IQ!”

“I’ll save you some then, yeah?” Thermite says, and Jäger must think that Bandit’s _really_ stupid if he thinks Bandit doesn’t notice the way he waggles his eyebrows at the American.

“That’d be awesome, thank you so much!” Jäger grins, ignoring the vice-like grip Bandit has around his waist and instead waving farewell. “See you tomorrow, say hello to the others for me!”

“If you say _anything_ to anyone, I _will_ kill you,” Bandit growls, but is tugged away by Jäger before he can step closer to Thermite to reinforce his threat.

Thermite just chuckles and turns back to the stew. “You got it – have a nice night!”

The second they're out of the kitchen and in the hall, Bandit slaps Jäger upside the head, annoyance sat heavy in his chest because if _Thermite_ knows then Jäger had _lied_ , earlier, when he said Bandit’s ridiculous pining wasn’t obvious.

(And he knows it must be that, because Jäger is actually very good at keeping secrets.)

(Especially Bandit’s secrets, because he knows that Bandit is not afraid to steal all his clothes and make him wander around the base dressed only in a towel to find them as revenge.)

“I thought you said nobody knew!” he snaps, ignoring Jäger’s affronted look and refusing to move any further.

“I said we hadn’t _spoken_ to anyone about it; if they figured it out themselves it’s not my fault!” Jäger replies, heaving at Bandit’s waist and winning the war of strength only because Bandit’s knees are trembling too much to put up any sort of resistance.

“You said it wasn’t _obvious_ ,” Bandit continues with a scowl, letting Jäger drag him through the common room and back outside into the night.

“I didn’t _think_ it was, are you really expecting _me_ to be a good judge of obviousness?” Jäger says, voice a bit higher than it should be, and okay, Bandit will accept that as an answer, because Jäger _is_ genuinely terrible at taking a hint or reading between the lines.

So he huffs and lets the matter go, because Jäger’s shoulders have tightened beneath his arm and it’s not really fair to bully him when he’s being so _useful_. (And besides, Jäger’s a _bitch_ when he’s upset with him, and Bandit doesn’t have the energy to deal with that at the moment. He’s still not unconvinced that this is a trap, that his eyes were deceiving him when he saw that little text heart, that this is all a silly misunderstanding.)

(He decided, as the walk, that he’s going to pretend he never saw it. If it was a slip of the hand, if Blitz _does_ regret sending it, it’ll be easier on both of them.)

They walk the rest of the way in silence, broken occasionally by Jäger snidely pointing out the obvious – like the brightness of the stars and the presence of the moon. Bandit doesn’t comment, not wanting to get into an argument (because that’s _definitely_ what he’s after, the git), just nods along and squeezes Jäger’s shoulder in a silent apology for snapping.

The armoury light is on and they hear Blitz before they see him, chatting away to Doc and clattering around as he helps put away the team’s equipment, as he always does, as selfless as ever.

Bandit’s legs threaten to freeze beneath him again and his pulse picks back up, but Jäger keeps them moving and squeezes his arm in brief comfort, then pushes into the room with a bit more force than necessary.

The door hits the wall with a bang, and Bandit has to duck as Doc swears and launches an ammo box at them on reflex. Blitz peers from around his raised shield and smiles brightly as Jäger frantically starts apologising to an angry looking Doc, and Bandit’s heart somersaults in his chest. He calms it down _– it might be a_ _trap, he might not have meant it_ – and instead focuses on the fact that both Blitz and Doc are still in their uniforms, dark bags sitting heavily beneath their eyes.

Bandit staggers back to lean against the wall as Jäger lets him go, hands thrown up in the air and eyes wider than Bandit has ever seen them as he babbles on, picking up the box and handing it back to the Doc. Blitz rolls his eyes and winks before going back to putting his shield away, and Bandit has to distract himself from blushing by watching as Doc prods Jäger in the chest and sternly tells him, “Scare me again and I will make your next check-up _hell_.”

Doc rants for a minute more and sets Jäger to work unpacking his things before turning to Bandit.

“I thought I told Jäger to tell you to take it steady?” he says, arms folded with suspicion.

Bandit shrugs in an attempt at nonchalance, and Jäger chimes in. “We have! We’ve been sat down in the workshop all day!”

“I’ll check you over now, since you’re here,” Doc says, ignoring Jäger and instead moving over to help Bandit to a chair. Bandit doesn’t complain – his legs feel like jelly again and if Jäger were any closer he’d punch him for abandoning him. “How is your pain?”

Bandit shrugs again. His eyes ache and he really wants to sleep, but it could be worse. “Not so bad. A bit of a headache and a bit of a backache, but that’s all.”

Doc nods, and Bandit doesn’t miss the way Blitz is subtly moving closer, worry in his eyes. “I’d offer to make you an appointment with the masseuse, but I have a feeling you won’t want one,” he says, and Bandit grimaces in answer. He’d rather _not_ have someone he doesn’t know touching him, not when an unexpected hand can still sometimes make him jump out of his skin and grab the offender by the throat on reflex alone. “Let me run a few quick tests, then you can go off to bed.”

The tests don’t take long, and by the end of it Blitz is sat by his side, failing to pretend he’s wiping the grit off his shield and instead watching curiously.

Doc hums to himself and puts the small flashlight he’d been shining into Bandit’s eyes down on the desk.

“You should be alright,” he says, standing up and rummaging around in his medical box. “All your reflexes are normal, there’s no sign of lasting damage other than a bit of bruising.”

Bandit pretends not to hear Blitz’s sigh of relief. “Will I still need to see the nurse tomorrow?”

“Yes – I want to run your bloods one more time, and I don’t have any needles on me to do it now. _Please_ be nice to her, I don’t want to have to find a replacement,” Doc says, then presses a small sheet of tablets into Bandit’s hand before he can respond. “Take two of these before you sleep, and two when you wake up in the morning until the sheet is empty. And _no_ _funny business_ or I’ll put you on bed rest.”

He waggles his finger sternly, and Bandit rolls his eyes. “You think so little of me,” he says in mock disappointment.

Doc arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I wonder why,” he says flatly, and Jäger wheezes into the box he’s unpacking. “Take it steady, please – Blitz can walk you back to your room, I want Jäger to stay to help me.”

Jäger’s yelp of “What? _Why_?” doesn’t distract Bandit enough that he doesn’t notice the way Blitz stiffens besides him.

“Of course,” Blitz says softly, and he exchanges a look with Doc that Bandit can’t read. It makes his heart skip a beat in his chest, and Doc might have seen the way his eyes widen with panic or might just think the pain’s getting to him, but either way he smiles warmly and reaches forwards to clap him on the shoulder.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, and Bandit gets the niggling feeling he’s not just talking about the pain in his head. “I will see you tomorrow – please make sure you both eat, it’s been a long day.”

Blitz smiles and stands up. “We will – make sure you do too.”

He offers a hand out and Bandit takes it, not quite meeting Blitz’s eyes but unable to miss the nervous smile, the dimples in his cheeks that make Bandit’s heart want to jump out of his chest.

Blitz heaves him upright and catches him around the waist, neatly swinging the arm he’s holding over his shoulder and holding it there, so they're pulled flush against each other. Bandit is sure he’s blushing – from the smug look Jäger is giving him he _must_ be – and his pulse is thumping in his ears, hard enough that Blitz can probably feel it where he’s gripping Bandit’s wrist.

“Have a nice evening, use protection!” Jäger crows from behind them and _Christ_ , Bandit’s going to _kill_ him in the morning, his helpfulness be damned, because suddenly he’s panicking again, and Blitz’s shoulders have stiffened enough that it’s a miracle he’s still breathing.

They stand in silence for a moment as Blitz adjusts his grip, and Bandit wants to sink through the ground to hell because the sudden awkwardness is _killing_ him. Something’s shifted, thrown them off kilter from their normal easy friendship, and Bandit doesn’t know how to get it back again – he doesn’t really know if he _wants_ to. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting, when he’d read that text, when Blitz had come back, but it’s not _this_.

He’d half hoped they would carry on as normal as though nothing had happened, but of course that’s not the case – the tiny text heart still swims around his mind enough that he'd never be able to let it go, and Blitz isn't one to play oblivious. The rest of him had expected it to pan out like a cheesy romcom; that Blitz would run into his arms and look up at him with his startlingly blue eyes and admit his love for Bandit like a _fool_ , and then they’d kiss, and Bandit would say it back and they’d have a _happy ever after._

And now they’re stood in the chill spring air, worried anticipation sat in Bandit’s stomach like a rock, and he has _no idea_ what to do.

“C’mon, it’s cold out here,” Blitz says quietly, cutting through Bandit’s thoughts and tugging at his waist to urge him forwards.

Bandit does so automatically, falling into perfect step besides him, the way they have done since they met – and now they’re here, four years down the line, and Bandit can’t stop the panic creeping back up his throat that this talk is going to ruin it, is going to send it back to when they could barely speak for the fear of upsetting the other.

“How was the mission?” he eventually asks – more to break the silence, to cut through the tension that’s wrapping over them like a blanket than in want of an actual answer. He knows it must have gone well – they wouldn’t be home so soon if it hadn’t – but when Blitz launches into an explanation, he barely hears it.

Blitz trips over his words more than usual, stuttering where he shouldn’t and tapping his fingers against Bandit’s waist in a way that Bandit’s come to associate with Jäger – and for some reason, that loosens the knot in his chest. Blitz is just as nervous as he is, and it’s a comforting thought.

It’s also as endearing as all hell, and it takes a lot for Bandit to keep looking forwards, making sure he doesn’t trip over anything and send them tumbling down, because all he wants to do is watch Blitz’s face, to try and read the carefully hidden look in his eye and watch how his mouth forms his words – to try to catch a glimpse of what he’s _thinking_. He’s learned a lot about Blitz by doing so, over the years; Blitz wears a mask so perfectly that he doesn’t think the rest of the base even know it’s there - but Bandit does the same and has done for decades; he knows how to read the smallest of tells, the barely noticeable changes of expression, and learning how to notice them on Blitz had been easier than breathing.

But he resists the urge and carries on walking, listening to Blitz ramble on just enough to ask questions here and there to keep him talking, to keep the tension at bay until they’re inside and alone and away from prying eyes.

 

.

 

The locker room is empty when they reach it, the other operators likely all in the kitchen, and Blitz gently deposits Bandit on one of the benches lining the wall so he can take his jacket and over trousers off.

Bandit diverts his eyes and fiddles with the hem of his shirt – they’d run out of things to say a minute or so ago, and he doesn’t quite know how to break the silence that’s fallen again. His chest feels tight again and his head is throbbing in time with his pulse, and he’d quite like to curl up into bed and pretend the past few days haven’t happened.

Blitz looks at him, his eyes cast in shadow but the pinch to the corner of his mouth just visible enough that Bandit can tell he’s worried. Any other time he’d crack a joke about it, but he can’t bring himself to do so - not when they’re dancing around each other like this, uncertain to take the next step forwards even though Bandit is pretty sure they both know what it is. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You’ve gone a bit pale,” he asks.

“Head hurts a bit,” Bandit says, because there’s no point in lying with Blitz. Blitz can read him far too well for that.

Blitz hums, and carefully folds his coat up before putting it on the laundry pile. “Do you remember what happened?” he asks slowly, eyes trailing over Bandit as though he’s trying to confirm for himself that Bandit’s still in one piece.

“I remember Doc arriving and giving me something, then I woke up this morning. I don’t know what happened in between,” Bandit says, mouth dry because finally, maybe, this is _happening_.

“Well,” Blitz starts, and his mouth quirks up in an awkward smile. “You told Doc he has pretty hands, and I think he was quite touched by it, to be honest with you.”

Bandit grimaces. “Okay, great.”

“He hopped you up on morphine as soon as he could, and you rambled a bit from there until he put you under. We flew to a general hospital near the border, gave you a couple of x-rays and an MRI to make sure you hadn’t broken anything and didn’t have an bleeding anywhere – which you didn’t, by the way, thank _god_ –“ Blitz breaks off with a shake of his head, and takes a hesitant step closer. “We were scared, for a while, you know? It was a heavy fall, and your helmet and armour pretty much shattered… Doc thought you’d almost definitely have a bleed and that he’d have to do surgery, at first.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” is all Bandit can think to say, unconsciously bringing his fingers up to poke at the back of his head. It’s tender and a bit swollen still, though the pain from moving his shoulder is quite possibly worse – he’d forgotten about the stitches completely and the stretch has jarred them enough to make them sting.

“Yeah, that’s what we thought,” Blitz says drily, dragging a hand through his hair. “But you were fine. So, the other guys left to come home, Doc and I stayed overnight with you to monitor you, then we left to come home the next evening so that you had a bit more time to recover. Doc thought it would be better to fly you whilst you were still unconscious, to save you a bit of stress.”

Bandit nods. His dislike of flying is one of the worst kept secrets on base, and he definitely appreciates the thought. He _also_ appreciates the way Blitz’s undershirt is stretched over his broad shoulders, and has to force his eyes away as they fall back into silence and Blitz moves to sit on the bench opposite to take off his boots.

He closes his eyes and lets his head drop back against the cool tile of the wall, because _this_ , apparently, isn't happening just yet. The air has cleared a little, at least, but part of him wants to stand up and grab Blitz by the shoulders and shake him, to hurry the whole thing along because really, the tension that’s returned with full force is quite possibly going to give him a heart attack.

He’s had two years to pine, to helplessly spiral from friendship to quiet appreciation to love, and now that he’s had a hint that Blitz might reciprocate – that _doesn’t_ come from Jäger and IQ bothering him – he can’t bring himself to wait much longer. His skin prickles with it, a hot lump building in his throat as he watched Blitz oh-so-carefully re-lace his boots with the same amount of care he puts into everything he does. He’s Bandit’s complete opposite; he's the reason he’s here and not working his way through squads back in Germany, stuck in his own head and unwilling to trust, to let anyone in – Bandit owes him his job at the least and his sanity at the most, because when was the last time he had the urge to kill, to draw blood and hurt and shout, before locking himself away from the world, unable to separate fiction from reality? He can’t quite _remember_ , but it definitely isn't the every-other-week it used to be when he first came home.

“Ban?” Blitz says quietly, shaking Bandit from his thoughts, and he slowly realises that his hands are shaking, and his nails are digging painfully into his palms.

“Sorry,” he croaks. “Headache.”

Blitz narrows his eyes in mild disbelief but doesn’t push him, and Bandit loves him all the more for it.

They sit in silence broken only by the sound of Blitz fiddling with his laces, until Blitz finally lets out a heavy sigh, puts his boot down, and turns to look at Bandit. He’s chewing on his lip and Bandit can see the way he’s fighting the urge to drag a hand through his hair.

“You know, you talk a lot when you’re on morphine,” Blitz says uncertainly. Bandit grimaces – so Jäger had said. He just hopes it wasn’t anything _too_ ridiculous.

“I didn’t say anything too bad, right?” he asks nervously, dropping his head back against the wall because the way Blitz is looking at him is making him feel a bit ill – his eyes are soft and he’s still chewing his lower lip and Bandit _still_ hasn’t quite figured out how to approach the matter of his big, dumb crush.

“Well,” Blitz says, before standing abruptly and heading over to his locker. Bandit’s heart freezes in his chest.

“Well?” he parrots back, dreading the answer.

Blitz turns around and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You, uh,” he starts, then shuffles awkwardly, looking at his feet. It’s ridiculously endearing and if Bandit had the strength (and the _courage,_ when did he become such a coward?) to go and sling an arm round his shoulders and tease him, he would. But he doesn’t, so he sits and fiddles with his shirt and waits impatiently for Blitz to carry on.

Blitz is blushing when he looks up. Bandit’s heart starts doing flip-flops in his chest for what might be the hundredth time today. “You said you loved me,” he murmurs, shoulders hunched and blushing enough that his ears are stained pink.

Bandit stares at him, blood draining from his face, because, _fuck_ , of _course_ he did. He’s the biggest idiot in the history of forever, and he’d quite like to punch past-Bandit in the face.

He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look Blitz in the face, afraid of what he’ll see if he does. “I’m sorry,” he says weakly, because he is. It’s not fair to spring that kind of damn confession on anyone, especially not _Blitz_. Blitz deserves flowers and presents and cute dates, not a scruffy _idiot_ on a stretcher doped up on enough pain killers to take down a horse – not someone as screwed up as _him_.

“Ban?” Blitz says, startling Bandit’s eyes open because he’s suddenly a lot closer than he was before, (and he is, of course, the only person on base that can actually sneak up on Bandit, for better or worse), and now he’s stood in front of him, hand half outstretched as though he wants to take hold of Bandit’s shoulder.

He doesn’t, though. Bandit isn't sure if that’s a relief or not.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything – _ignore it_ , perhaps, or _as a friend_. Blitz cuts him off before he can force the words out, an unreadable look in his eyes.

“Did you mean it?” he asks quietly, arm dropping back to his side and coming to fiddle nervously with the hem of his shirt.

Bandit blinks slowly and drops his head. _Fuck_.

“I did. I do,” he replies, voice cracking and the knot of tension in his chest squeezing enough that it makes him dizzy – this is _it_ ; there’s no going back now, and he kind of wants to melt into the floor and never come back.

A warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and the fact that he doesn’t react at _all_ tells him more about his past few days than all the headaches and stab wounds in the world.

“Hey, look at me?” Blitz asks, so softly that Bandit barely hears him, and if it were anyone in the world but Blitz, he’d refuse.

The tightness around his chest vanishes when he looks Blitz in the eye and realises that Blitz isn't angry, isn't watching him with that horribly blank expression he gets when something unfavourable happens.

He's _smiling_.

“We’re idiots,” he says, and Bandit finally identifies the odd look in his eyes as _love_ , as affection – and Blitz is mirroring what he said in his text earlier, and Bandit thinks he’s going to cry.

Blitz is right, yet again – he _is_ an idiot.

_It’s not a trick._

The hand on his shoulder slides up to gently cup his chin and he can’t help but lean into it, and Blitz has at somehow ended up kneeling on the tile, his midriff close enough to Bandit’s knees that when he leans forwards they touch.

“I’m sorry if I’ve read this wrong,” he murmurs, then he’s leaning closer still and his breath puffs warmth against Bandit’s lips and suddenly they’re _kissing_.

_Blitz wants this._

The pressure is light and Blitz’s lips are just as soft as he imagined they'd be, and it makes his knees shake - with want, with fear, with _relief_ \- and his stomach feels as though its sat somewhere in his ankles; like the floor has dropped away from beneath him and he's starting to free fall, spiralling through the air to come crashing back down to earth.

It’s over before he can do much more than make a strangled noise of what might be surprise (but is more likely _need_ ), hands coming to clutch at Blitz’s shoulder’s like a life line. Heat floods his chest when Blitz pulls back, a smile threatening to split his face in half and eyes sparkling more than Bandit’s ever seen.

It’s when Blitz’s other hand comes to rest on his waist, a steadying warmth that makes Bandit want to both run away and stay frozen forever, when he realises that the crash hasn't come.

_Blitz wants this too_ , he realises again, slowly but surely, and for the first time, he _believes_ it.

“You have no idea,” Blitz says slowly, gently, “how long I've wanted to do that for.”

When his hand moves up to push the hair away from Bandit’s forehead, Bandit lets him. He doesn't pull away, doesn't even flinch - this is Blitz and he trusts Blitz with his life and his soul and Blitz _wants this too-_

“I do,” he croaks, not quite shell-shocked but damn near close. “I know.”

Blitz’s smile somehow gets even wider. “I should have said something months ago,” he murmurs, thumb coming back and trailing lightly through the scruff on Bandit’s jaw. “I wasn’t sure if you felt the same, though, and I didn’t want to ruin it if I was wrong.”

Bandit manages to shake his head. He feels a bit faint; the pain behind his eyes is still there but it’s muted, overruled by the fact that Blitz has just _kissed_ him and that this is actually _happening_. “Two years,” he whispers, and he knows that he’s not making much sense, but Blitz has just about broken his brain and he doesn’t quite have the strength to put it back together. “After Hong Kong, I wanted to tell you.”

Blitz looks sheepish. “I think I wanted to since Jäger joined our squad. Better late than never, though, right?”

He yelps and pouts in pretend hurt when Bandit pinches him.

“They’re going to be insufferable,” he says weakly, changing the subject because he _really_ doesn’t want to think about all the lost time - or the fact that Jäger joined them over _three years ago_ , what the _fuck_.

“Let them be, I don’t care,” Blitz says with a shrug and a look that makes Bandit’s heart turn to goo in his chest. “Did you know that you’re shaking?”

Bandit looks down at his fingers, still clutching at Blitz’s shoulders. He still feels faint, and now that he’s thinking about it, his muscles are aching again.

“I might need to lay down,” he says, and Blitz huffs out a laugh.

“And to think, all I did was kiss you,” he says teasingly, wincing at the pinch to the shoulder Bandit gives him before straightening up and holding out a hand. “Come on, I’ll help you upstairs. Did you want food?”

Bandit lets him heave him up again, and if Blitz ends up half carrying him, he doesn’t comment on it. “No, it’s fine. Just need some painkillers.”

“And some sleep,” Blitz says, squeezing Bandit’s waist. “It’s been a long day. We can talk about this in the morning, if you want?”

Bandit nods into Blitz’s shoulder. He smells like faintly like gunpowder but mostly like sweat and dirt and something wholly _Blitz_ ; it’s comfortingly familiar, if a little bit gross, but Bandit’s too tired to care. Now the tension and the panic and the anxiety is gone _(It’s not a trick, Blitz feels the same)_ he feels washed out, as though he hasn’t just been asleep for the past two days.

The halls are blissfully quiet – everyone must still be at dinner, thank god, because Bandit really doesn’t have the energy to deal with the teasing that he’s sure will come.

Blitz guides him into his bedroom and eases him onto his bed, a fond look in his eye that makes Bandit want to drag him down and hold him still for as long as possible.

“I’m going to shower but I can come back afterwards, if you want?” Blitz asks gently.

Bandit nods, fishing the tablets out of his pocket before swallowing two of them dry. “I’d like that,” he says carefully – he’s not quite sure where their boundaries are, now, but they’ve shared a bed before and he’s almost itching to have Blitz curled into his side after so much time spent _wanting_.

Blitz just grins and says, “Of course!” as though it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?”

And with a small wave he leaves, switching the light off behind him. Bandit lies awake for a minute, mind reeling with thoughts he doesn’t care to sort right now, determined to wait for Blitz to come back because he wants to talk about this, to make sure they’re on the same page, to get it _right_ – but his eyes slip close on their own accord, and he’s asleep before Blitz comes back.

(When he wakes, Blitz is curled around his back with his lips pressed to Bandit’s neck, and for the first time in what he thinks is probably _decades_ , he feels as though he’s where he’s supposed to be.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on prompts at the moment so if you've sent one and it hasn't been filled, it's coming, I promise! Feel free to nag me about them though seriously I'm forgetful lol  
> katalicz.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i have no self control and was gently encouraged by a friend to do an epilogue of sorts so here you go i guess!  
> have some fluff and blitz pov, because i definitely dont write enough from blitz's pov and i need to get into the swing of it again

Bandit wakes slowly. It’s unusual, Blitz notes, because as a rule Bandit sleeps ridiculously lightly, waking at the slightest touch or sound, dark eyes flashing open and scanning for danger, for anything out of the ordinary, before settling back down to something that’s not quite peace.

He’s not particularly surprised by it, though – he knows first-hand how exhausting head injuries can be, how they sap at even the strongest persons strength to leave them a weak, emotional disaster; he’d been all over the place when he last took a serious fall and had been confined to the floor his teams shares with GIGN to avoid having a confused meltdown in front of the entire base.

Bandit’s fall had been far worse than that (and he can still hear the explosion, can still see the dark shape of Bandit broken on the floor and barely responding, can still feel the panic as he’d prepared for the worst-) but Doc had been happy with him and he’d seemed lucid enough that Blitz doesn’t feel guilty for not waiting to have the conversation that ended with him here, curled up in Bandit’s bed and quietly marvelling that this is happening.

He watches as Bandit’s breathing changes, minutely enough that he wouldn’t notice if his chest wasn’t pressed so firmly against Bandit’s back. He runs a thumb down Bandit’s side as Bandit stiffens, murmurs, “ _It’s okay, it’s only me,”_ and relishes the way Bandit hums in understanding and relaxes back down. His feet come to press themselves between Blitz’s calves, and something about that feels so _domestic_ that Blitz can’t help but smile, heart fluttering like a dove beneath his ribs.

When Bandit comes around, they talk. It doesn’t take long to set boundaries – Bandit had pointed out that really, they’ve done the whole relationship thing almost backwards; they’ve slept in the same bed more times than either of them can count, have seen each other in complete stages of undress and distress and at their worst and their best and honestly, it makes Blitz’s head spin with how natural, how _easy_ it feels to go the one step further.

He lays in a contented daze as Bandit showers and watches quietly as he dresses, dark bruises staining his back like ink. Blitz has the uncontrollable urge to run his hands along the expanse of skin and feel the muscles moving underneath so he _does_ , because he’s allowed to, now, holy _shit_. Bandit winces at the light touch but doesn’t protest it, doesn’t react other than dropping his head forwards in a way that Blitz knows means he's smiling.

When he goes back to his own room to fetch Bandit’s jacket, he can help but feel irrationally nervous. It’s Bandit’s most prized possession – it’s old enough that the company that made it has long since gone out of business, and he’s fairly sure that Bandit would sacrifice everyone on the base for it if he had to. The blood has washed out and the colour fortunately hasn’t faded, but the stitched-up tear looks big and ugly and obvious to Blitz’s eyes, despite his best attempts to make it neat.

“You fixed it,” Bandit says slowly, eyes searching Blitz’s own and a look on his face that Blitz is hesitant to name.

He blushes. “Well, I mean – I'm the one that had to cut it, and I said I’d fix it, remember?”

“I didn’t think you’d actually _do_ it,” Bandit replies, then he’s stepping forwards to take it from Blitz’s hands. He peers at the stitching and runs a careful finger down it before shrugging it on with a wince and inspecting it again.

When he looks up, his eyes are filled with warmth and his mouth is tugged up in a smile and _gods_ , Blitz wants to kiss him.

So he does, because fuck it, _he’s allowed to._

_“Thank you,”_ Bandit murmurs against his lips, voice wavering slightly. Blitz’s heart swoops in his chest and he kisses him again in reply, trying to pour in the feeling of _you’re welcome,_ and _you’re worth it,_ and _I love you_.

.

IQ wins the base-wide bet, because of course she does. She gives them a share of her earnings, though, and a hug that threatens to break Blitz’s ribs.

“I told you so,” she murmurs in his ear, beneath the din of Jäger teasing Bandit playfully and the handful of other operators on base chiming in to back him up as Bandit tries to argue that _no, we weren’t that obvious, you’re all just dicks._

Doc gives Bandit a clean bill of health and the stern advice to not over-do anything until the bruises have gone and he’s run out of pills. Blitz finds himself promising to keep Bandit out of trouble, which earns a dramatic groan from Jäger and a fond eye-roll from Bandit.

By the time evening rolls around, Blitz has had no fewer than fourteen separate messages of congratulations from those on missions, as well as a rather _explicit_ email from Smoke that makes the tips of Blitz’s ears burn and Bandit cackle in delight. It’s nice, he thinks, that they all care so much – though he could really do without the vivid pictures Smoke’s put into his head, because Bandit is supposed to be taking it easy and _that_ is everything but.

They end up ordering in enough pizza to feed the base for a week and all squashing into the large common room to watch Lord of the Rings at Thatcher’s insistence and to Mute’s despair. Blitz ends up squashed on a sofa, Bandit pressed into his left side like a brand and Jäger sprawling out on his right. IQ curls herself into Jäger’s other side and it’s a ridiculously tight squeeze – the sofa is only meant for three small people, and none of them are that – until she wiggles to lie draped across their laps, her weight warmer than any blanket and her agreement to fill the bowl of popcorn when needed worth the numbness that settles through Blitz’s legs halfway through the _Fellowship_.

He’s not quite sure when Bandit falls asleep – he dozes off himself during the slower moments, awoken by the arguments that break out at key plot points and the dramatic swell of the orchestra – but he ends up with a head on his shoulder and a numb arm to match his legs where it’s curled around Bandit’s back, and he can’t help but grin dopily.

“You are so _gone_ , oh my _god_ ,” Jäger mutters, when he finally gets tired of flicking popcorn at Mute and notices the expression, but drops his head to rest on Blitz’s other shoulder all the same, falling asleep not ten minutes later.

He’s right, Blitz decides, as Thermite gets up to put the next disk in. He gently squeezes the hand that had slipped into his own shortly before the film had begun, and the squeeze he gets back fills his chest with warmth. He _is_ well and truly gone, but that’s fine, because he’s fairly certain that Bandit is too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im almost finished my year at college and only have 2 exams left so im getting back in the swing of writing! if youve sent a prompt im workign on it but feel free to nag as i am forgetful!  
> ill still accept prompts bcif something really takes my fancy itll kickstart the rest so feel free to ask for anything you want writing!  
> katalicz.tumblr.com


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